


Lost Puppy

by overthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Gen, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-07 17:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/751279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overthemoon/pseuds/overthemoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock keeps following John everywhere.  <i> It’s not enough to see John as only the back of a head waiting in line, or the profile formed by a busy man who can’t be bothered to talk to anyone.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost Puppy

**Author's Note:**

> [Original post on Tumblr](http://overthemoonwriting.tumblr.com/post/47331920722)  
> [Inspired by this gifset](http://watsonsdick.tumblr.com/post/37943207848)  
>  Thanks to coloredink for the beta!

Trailing after John into the supermarket only makes Sherlock feel more lost than ever. It’s not enough to see John as only the back of a head waiting in line, or the profile formed by a busy man who can’t be bothered to talk to anyone.

The hair dye itches, almost as much as the vacant stare Sherlock has glued to his face. He can’t afford to be recognized by John, of all people, but a magnetic tether keeps Sherlock in London when Sherlock knows he should be helping Mycroft to dismantle Moriarty’s international network. John is the north pole on Sherlock’s internal compass, and Sherlock yearns to follow the needle home.

Sherlock tucks his fists into the pockets of a hoodie that is terrible at keeping out the cold. His feet, trapped inside generic converse trainers, tap impatiently on tile floor, off-beat to the shop muzak. John is filling a basket with groceries, and when an old lady clumsily bumps into John, Sherlock has to dig his nails into his palms to stop himself from running over to see if John is all right. 

“It’s fine, it’s all fine." Sherlock bites the inside of his cheek and leaves an imprint on the inside of his skin.

The accidental bumping leaves John staring at the half-empty shopping basket, eyes vacant and dull, then his forehead creases in a frown... John looks up from the basket and Sherlock has to force his head to turn, away from John’s graying (soft?) hair, and examines the price labels. Dull. Dull. _Stop looking, John,_ Sherlock mentally pleads. John looks back down at the basket again.

Sherlock risks a sharp glance, reads John’s defeat in the slumped shoulders and the return in the tremble of John’s left hand. John turns (military precision) and pushes past the other shoppers in the store.

“Excuse me, excuse me.” John’s worn out voice litters a path for Sherlock to follow through the milling Saturday crowd. “Sorry.”

Sherlock redirects his feet to carry him into another isle. A noisy group of teen boys hovers at the end, giving each other high-fives and shoving each other and Sherlock wants to scream at them “SHUT UP!” He faces his shoulder towards a selection of peas, counting the number of times he allows his eyes to dark over to John’s jacket, with its slowly fraying seams.

John bends over the self-checkout machine trying to scan a roll of bread. The exasperation is plain on John’s face as the machine stubbornly refuses to beep.

_I can’t believe he still doesn’t know how to use the unmanned checkout machine._

If Sherlock were there (for John he'll make an exception) he’d reach out a hand and gently use his long fingers to rotate the package so the scan would go through. John’s hand would be slightly chapped from the dry weather so the skin would be rough, but John’s hand would be warm and soothing and in Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock suddenly desires to know what John’s fingerprints would feel like on Sherlock’s skin, to know if the little microscopic whorls could be etched just from a gentle tough.

John huffs in frustration and waves the lettuces again. “Item not recognized,” says the cool feminine tone. John’s left hand clenches and unclenches, and his mouth twists in an ugly grimace. 

Sherlock can read the anger and frustration in the deepening lines of John’s too-old face. A machine could not.

The bread is dumped in the basket, and John begins to scan the other items. There’s no milk. 

"Do you need help?" Sherlock resists the urge to glare at the underage store employed and chokes out a "I'm fine, no thank you." Sherlock hovers by an eye-hurting tabloid stand until John paces out through the electronic sliding doors and back onto the streets.

As John walks back to the flat (and Sherlock trails after him) the gut feeling grows that Sherlock will not be able to keep up this charade. Sherlock’s characteristic lack of impulse control (the same lack that’s letting him watch John instead of hunting with Mycroft) means that Sherlock has to make another choice: tell John or leave. The door to the flat opens and shuts. It starts to rain.

Sherlock’s mobile buzzes in his pocket. His hand automatically reaches out and checks the new message.

_Are you ready? - Number Withheld._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/Kudos are appreciated! They really do make my day.  
> Was it too angsty? Or was it not angsty enough?


End file.
